“Only those who died have earned the right to rest. Everyone else must work for Victory.” The story of Azov fighter Vlad Zhayvoronok, who miraculously survived captivity after being wounded a
Source: Novynarnia
Author: Marina Tkachuk
“This is the only thing I have left from my time serving and defending Mariupol,” says Vladislav as he pulls his military dog tag from under his T-shirt. He still wears it around his neck and cherishes it dearly: this important “souvenir” has been with him not only through the defense of Azovstal but also through his captivity in Russia. It survived by a miracle—the Russians never found it.
“I just smelled so strongly of rotten meat that no one even bothered to search me thoroughly,” the young man explains.
Vladislav Zhayvoronok “Wikipedia,” a 29-year-old fighter with the Azov Regiment and commander of an aerial reconnaissance squad, was perhaps the last patient to be rescued at Azovstal. And what a rescue it was! Vlad suffered severe injuries in battle (shrapnel from an anti-tank missile shattered his leg and struck his eye); he was practically bleeding to death.
“Wikipedia,” who was showing almost no signs of life, was about to be placed in a black bag. But at the last moment, they decided to fight for his survival, even though there were no medicines or surgical instruments left in the bunker. In completely unsanitary conditions, they amputated Zhayvoronok’s injured leg with a rusty Soviet saw, and blood for the transfusion was collected from other wounded soldiers—donors—using a syringe into a plastic bottle.
But he survived! He endured Russian captivity and interrogations. He returned home and got a prosthetic leg. And now he continues to help the front lines.
“I’m truly proud that I lost my leg and the sight in one eye right there in battle, with a weapon in my hands defending Mariupol, and not while drunk in some car accident,” says Vladislav. “And all of us there at Azovstal were ready to die.”
“Perhaps some people think that the country’s independence isn’t worth one’s personal life or health. But that’s not true. You have to fight for your country at any cost!”
“I wanted to be in the ‘front row’ when it all started”
Vlad has been fascinated by “airplanes” since childhood
Vlad still recalls his most vivid childhood memory in minute detail: he is in a field, 12 years old, launching homemade model airplanes into the sky with his friend. Vlad lives with his family in his hometown of Beryslav in the Kherson region and is passionately interested in model aircraft.
A good ten years will pass, and his childhood hobby will become a military specialty that will help Vlad—now as a UAV pilot—destroy enemies on the front lines. “Back then, I was more interested not even in the flight itself,” recalls Wikipedia, “but in the design process: initial calculations, working with tools—all sorts of technical details. That’s how I learned to solder, for example.”
While still a teenager, Vladislav moved to Odesa with his family; there, he enrolled in a technical university and opened his own workshop, where he worked on electronics. In the evenings, he recalls, he would immerse himself in military literature, take an interest in information about cruise and ballistic missiles, and become increasingly convinced that drones were his calling.
And then came 2014 and the infamous events in Odesa on May 2.
“I happened to find myself in the epicenter of the unrest back then,” Vladislav says. “I was on my way home from work on a minibus. But I never made it home because the bus was forced to stop—the street had been blocked off. I continued on foot. I didn’t see the first victims (I found out about them later from the news). But I clearly remember the moment when shooting began from pro-Russian people I didn’t know.
Before these events—before the Revolution of Dignity—I had various acquaintances in Odesa. But it was then that I started cleaning up my social media accounts and analyzing the information around me more closely. For example, among my acquaintances was a Russian man who was hiding in Ukraine to avoid serving in the Russian army. And it was right after May 2, 2014, that he started posting on social media on behalf of “Odessa residents,” saying things like, “Let’s beat up these Bandera supporters.” It became obvious to me then that he was our enemy, living right here in Odesa. And there was no doubt in my mind which side to choose.”
It’s not that Vladislav had always been hostile toward Russians—quite the opposite.
“I grew up in the Kherson region, where Russia was viewed favorably. I even allowed myself to think that we really were kindred peoples: I rooted for their soccer clubs and for the Russian national team at the Olympic Games. “My father used to go to Russia to work,” Zhayvoronok shares. “But when he came home, he’d tell me a lot about how Russians really treated Ukrainians—with contempt and condescension. Even back then, we were “khakhls” to them—second-class citizens.
Even those Russians who lived in unfinished barracks—alcoholics and homeless people—for some reason considered themselves socially superior to any Ukrainian.
And in 2014, it really hit me: they are our enemies. And it wasn’t enough to simply accept this fact—the conflict between us demanded action! We must put up active resistance if we want to survive. If we don’t fight these enemies, we’ll lose and never see our country’s independence again—that’s what I thought.”
Vlad admits: after the annexation of Crimea and the fighting in Donbas, he was already expecting a major war.
“I understood that Russia had sufficient military capabilities to escalate things to an entirely different level. And when I read news reports that they had shelled something with ‘Grad’ rockets or 120-mm mortars, I thought of the enormous stockpile of cruise missiles and other weapons they had accumulated back in the days of the Soviet Union —I was “in the know”! And the Russians hadn’t started using any of that yet. But they would! It was clear that it was only a matter of time,” the young man reasoned.
Vladislav thought pragmatically and relied on his own analysis:
“In modern wars, the majority of casualties are civilians, not military personnel. So I didn’t plan to face a full-scale war as a civilian who doesn’t know how to do anything. I didn’t want to become ‘collateral damage’; I wanted to sell my life for a higher price. I preferred to be in the ‘front line’ when it all begins.”
Now Vlad laughs: “Beware of your desires!” Because even he didn’t expect to get such a “front row” spot so soon—just five years later: the reconnaissance platoon of the “Azov” Regiment, Mariupol, and the defense of “Azovstal.”
“Everyone in our reconnaissance platoon was a superhero”
The path to the “front row” in the theater of war, however, was neither short nor easy. Vladislav couldn’t imagine serving anywhere else but in the Azov Regiment. But he made the final decision to join the ranks of the “Azovites” after watching one video:
“In 2015, Mariupol was shelled with ‘Grad’ rockets for the first time. I saw how terrified the wounded civilians looked in that video. Meanwhile, the guys from ‘Azov’ were helping them—they were tired and exhausted, but they knew what to do—there was no panic. And I wanted to be closer to them—so I decided to join ‘Azov.’
Since Vlad had certain health limitations and had never served in the army before, it wasn’t easy to join the ranks of the Azov Battalion. But his dream finally came true in 2018. And, without a doubt, he wanted to work specifically with drones.
“I dreamed of making a difference by working with drones—developing them, building them, and flying them,” says Vladislav.
The Azov fighters recognized his abilities and drive—so “Viki” quickly joined the aerial reconnaissance unit. He had his first combat deployment as part of “Azov” at the Svitlodarsk Arc (where pilots were desperately needed, but at that time, few people knew how to fly them).
“Later, our aerial reconnaissance unit was merged with regular reconnaissance. It was physically demanding, since we were constantly out on combat missions. But it was also an honor! I felt like a real ‘cheater’ because, after a year of service, I’d ‘made it’ to the elite of ‘Azov.’ These guys were truly the best. They’re my family, the best friends in my life. Everyone in my platoon was a superhero—extraordinary!
And these aren’t just empty words. To make it into the reconnaissance platoon, you had to be better than your entire unit at something specific. In other words, our machine-gunners were the best at what they did. Our “mazuti,” our heavy equipment drivers. The best snipers and grenade launchers. That’s why now, when I look back on that experience, I sometimes can’t even believe I fought alongside these guys. Each of them had his own special skill. And the fact that they needed me was an extraordinary honor,” says Vladislav.
“I had accepted the fact that I was going to die, but I wanted to take as many enemies with me as possible.”
A few weeks before the “full-scale” conflict, they were warned about a possible Russian invasion. And that it would be much more serious than in 2014. The guys in Mariupol were on full combat alert:
“All the machine guns were cleaned, ammunition was ready, all the drones, all the batteries, and tablets were charged, and the armored personnel carriers were prepared and checked dozens of times. We didn’t have a lot of equipment, but we tried to keep it in the best possible condition,” recalls Wikipedia. When it all began, they followed protocol.
On the fifth day of the great war, the reconnaissance team, which included Vlad, set out on a reconnaissance mission: first to the village of Hnutovo, then to Talakivka and Sartana. The men essentially drove straight toward the enemy, which was already advancing on Mariupol, and were ambushed.
“We were planning to fly, but by that point the enemy had already breached the defenses at Shyrokyne—the line of defense held by the Marines stationed there. We didn’t know that at the time. We just ran into them.
From a military standpoint, it’s correct to call this a ‘sudden encounter with the enemy.’ There were about 30–40 Russians, and there were five of us. They were moving along the road and opened fire on our vehicle. That was the first time we lost a soldier from our platoon—Dmytro Linsky, nicknamed “Sectant.” He died right there in the vehicle. Everyone else, including me, was seriously wounded. I still managed to provide first aid to one of my comrades, the medic Vlad “Desmond.” We abandoned the vehicle and began to defend ourselves.
When I was firing my assault rifle at the enemy, when I could literally see the faces of the occupiers—that moment was a turning point for me: not in the sense of “Oh, I’ve killed a person for the first time!”
I realized that the enemy was afraid—none of them wanted to die!
Instead of finishing us off, the Russians simply lay down in the grass and shouted over the radio that they needed reinforcements. The guys and I exchanged glances—we didn’t get it: why did they need reinforcements when there were already so many of them? Not a single one from that large group of enemies wanted to be the first to approach us.
We, on the other hand, had free rein: I had accepted the fact that I was about to die, but I wanted to take as many enemies with me as possible. And that’s exactly what helped us survive! Later, we analyzed that incident second by second. Everyone was wounded, and there were far fewer of us. But we returned fire and began killing enemy soldiers. If we hadn’t done that, they would most likely have simply finished us off—us, the wounded—gathered up our gear—and that would have been it. We showed the enemy that we wouldn’t give up. Psychologically, we defeated them—we bought time and were able to retreat.”
“Guys, relax—it’s me. I’ll stick around as long as it takes.”
Bleeding out, the guys made their way back to Mariupol in multiple stops over seven hours. And they survived. At that time, the 555th Military Hospital was still operating; there, the fighters were more or less “patched up” and got back on their feet. Vlad had a serious through-and-through wound to his shoulder and had lost a lot of blood. But just a few weeks later, he was flying again. And he became one of the few pilots at “Azovstal” who flew right up until the very last night of the defense:
“I understood that, most likely, we’d all die there, surrounded as we were. But I wanted to die with a weapon in my hands, while performing my duty. To be honest, there were guys who were afraid to even step outside, and I’d look at their pale, frightened faces and realize: there were no ‘passengers’ left in their heads—they were already dead inside. And I was afraid of that—of becoming like that. I was afraid that if I died, my family would be told that I’d been hiding. So whenever I had to work or go out on missions—I’d go out onto the street and do everything I could.”
After his first injury, Vlad lost a lot of blood and couldn’t stand for long without losing consciousness—let alone carry out combat missions in full gear. But a couple of weeks later, he was already operating the remote control because it was necessary.
“One moment is etched in my memory,” Vlad recalls. “There was one extremely difficult position—Shlakova Hora. And the guys there had pretty poor cover. The enemy was firing at them almost 24/7. And the enemy had a completely logical tactic—an age-old one: they’d start shelling our positions, and the guys would take cover to minimize the chance of getting wounded. At that moment, enemy forces would advance. Because they’d be warned when the so-called “last shell” was fired. The enemy already knew that the shelling would stop, and they could simply throw grenades at the guys in their cover. Our fighters were wary of this scenario.
An enemy mortar is shelling our positions, and they’re worried that an assault might be coming any moment. No one can help them; no one can get close because the area is under heavy fire. At that moment, I felt as if my whole life had been leading up to this moment: I had the radio I’d built myself, staying up all night beforehand, and fully charged batteries. I can pop out of cover—the radio is still working—so I’m in touch with the guys, and I can warn them whether enemies are approaching or not.
And in that moment, the realization that I was the only one who could help them—that sense of responsibility—stuck with me for life. So I flew over and told them over the radio: “Guys, relax, it’s me—Lavina (that was my radio call sign at the time). The drone above you—that’s me. I’ve got the situation under control; no one’s coming near you. There are no enemy forces around. But if I see anything, I’ll let you know. You’ll have time to return fire—don’t worry. I have enough battery life, and I’ll stay overhead as long as needed.”
And that reassured the guys. (I don’t remember their call signs anymore, but I actually exchanged messages with one of them recently.) That day, the Russians never launched an assault. It’s possible that’s because it wouldn’t have come as a surprise to us.
But this situation was important proof for me: my profession as a pilot is important. And it was precisely this that allowed me to remain active throughout the entire defense of Mariupol.”
“As I was dying, I recited the nationalist prayer—it’s a sacred text to me.”
Meanwhile, it was becoming clear that the forces were unequal. And the siege of Mariupol was not going in the Ukrainian forces’ favor: the Russians were razing entire neighborhoods to the ground, along with their residents. Vladislav increasingly had to perform the duties of a combat medic or communications officer, not just a pilot.
“It was, in fact, the last evening of the defense—May 15. We had one seriously wounded fighter, a grenadier who had been hit while carrying out a combat mission,” recalls Wikipedia. “We saw his injuries and realized: they were unlikely to be compatible with life. We had no way to evacuate him under fire.
Four tank crewmen tried to come to our aid—they had lost their tanks and were now operating as infantry. But by the time the soldiers reached our position, three of them had been wounded. We knew we had to wait out the shelling. A few hours later, some guys—ordinary conscripts from the National Guard—came to our aid with a rigid stretcher (since we didn’t have one of our own) and helped us carry our comrade.
Unfortunately, Ryzhyy died while we were carrying him to the bunker—right there on the way. And when we were returning to our position, an anti-tank missile struck us. The rocket’s tail section severed Ruslan “David’s” foot, and it shattered my left leg. At the same time, a piece of shrapnel hit my right eye and seriously lacerated my other limbs.
I didn’t feel any pain: there was a flash nearby—and I lost my balance, fell, tried to crawl, and realized I couldn’t feel my left leg. There were railroad cars standing nearby; I crawled under one of them. I could barely see, so I realized: I’d lost one eye. I couldn’t get the tourniquet on properly: my leg was torn open and the wound was very high up. My arms were also broken—too weak—so I couldn’t tighten the “turnbuckle” properly.
Meanwhile, I hear the guys calling out to each other. Ruslan was begging to be finished off. I thought: Damn it, what kind of injury do you have if you’re asking for that? (It turned out later that I was the one who took the brunt of the blow. Fortunately, we both survived.
)
Mezha, an “Azov” soldier, ran up to me. He was actually the first person to save me. He’s tightening the turnbuckle on the tourniquet. He asked if it hurt, but I didn’t feel a thing. While my comrade was helping me, I got on the radio to report to the commander that our group had come under fire. Although it’s strictly forbidden for the wounded—especially those with severe injuries—to do this, because people are different, and not everyone remains calm in a stressful situation.
I report to the commander: “We have two ‘300s,’ severe cases.” In response: “Who’s wounded?” I say: “David had his foot blown off, and Wikipedia—he’s lost his left leg and an eye.” A pause on the radio. Stok asks again and adds: “So who am I talking to, then?” I reply: “Wikipedia.” Later, we recalled that conversation and laughed. At the time, it was important for me to keep my voice calm and report on the situation.”
But Vlad’s condition was rapidly deteriorating and becoming critical.
“I remember it almost second by second: how I lay there waiting for the guys with the stretcher. I understood very well what awaited me and that these injuries were very severe. At that moment, I accepted my death as a fait accompli. And I recited the nationalist prayer to myself. I don’t know—maybe this sounds strange to some—but that moment was solemn and important to me. And the text of the prayer is truly sacred; I always react emotionally to it. There was also a practical reason for this: I was reciting the prayer—so I was mumbling something, making some sounds—and that helped the guys find me faster in the dark, since all this was happening at half past midnight.”
“The surgeon sawed my leg with an old, rusty saw, and they transfused blood from a plastic bottle—but it worked!”
His comrades evacuated Vlad to the “Zalizyak” medical bunker at Azovstal—by then he was already in extremely critical condition: no pulse could be detected in his limbs. And even at his neck, it was barely perceptible.
“The surgeon, following protocol, was already about to put my body in a bag—not even the usual body bags, since we ran out of those a long time ago. We simply wrapped the dead bodies in pieces of black plastic.
And now they were unrolling that plastic for me, too, but the female medics started protesting loudly (they remembered me from when I was first wounded). And we’d seen each other just an hour earlier—I’d brought in another wounded soldier and returned to my position. And now here I am, brought in, already almost dead!).
The women—anesthesiologist Nina and psychologist Nastya—stubbornly refuse to put my body in a bag and are still trying to save me. They start looking for some kind of markings on me indicating my blood type but can’t find them (because I took off all my gear—the first-aid kit, the plate carrier, the body armor—where that information was—after I was wounded). They run around the medical bunker, asking if anyone knows my blood type. Nina shakes me, but I keep “drifting off”; I come to and seem (as far as I can tell) to answer her, but it’s impossible to make out what I’m saying.
I was lying there with my eyes closed, and I wasn’t in pain anymore—on the contrary, I actually felt good. I was peacefully drifting in and out of consciousness, dying, when suddenly they were poking me, shaking me, and asking me questions.
I’m a combat medic myself; I’ve gone through this training, and I understand that according to all protocols, I should have been declared dead. I was dying without any resentment or fear: everything was okay. Maybe it was because I was so tired and exhausted: for two months leading up to that day, we’d been sleeping only 2–3 hours a day. Maybe that’s why death felt like a relief—I just wanted to finally rest.
That must have been fate, because I said my blood type was “A+.” But Nina heard “2+.” And I was lucky, because they’re one and the same. So they decided among themselves to try giving me the second blood type after all. A group of guys lined up—they were wounded themselves, but agreed to share their blood with me: they drew it from them with syringes and poured it into some kind of plastic bottle—either a mineral water bottle or a Coke bottle. They mixed it all together—there were no anticoagulants, none of the medications necessary for a blood transfusion!—and transfused it into me.
What’s more, this story had a sequel. One of the guys from whom they took some blood for me returned to the front after being captured and exchanged. And he died. And his blood flows through me. I think his call sign was Yura… And I owe him my life.
Then came the amputation: the surgeon sawed through the bone in my leg with some old, rusty Soviet saw with a red plastic handle—they even sent me a photo of that saw later. They even joked: “They wiped it down with alcohol before the operation!” They stitched up the wound with blue fishing line (“leska”) that they found somewhere. Under those conditions at Azovstal, the doctors did truly amazing things. And it worked!”
“I didn’t see any Red Cross representatives while I was a prisoner of war.”
“I came to my senses already in Donetsk, while in captivity,” Vladislav recounts the events that followed. “I’d woken up a few times before that, but it was like a ‘slideshow.’ I remember being driven along a terrible road, being loaded onto and unloaded from vehicles. The most seriously wounded were sent to Donetsk. Those who didn’t need medical care were taken to Olenivka.
By all the rules and protocols, I shouldn’t have survived. No one even thought I’d survive: in Donetsk, after I regained consciousness, it wasn’t until the sixth day (and even then, only after interrogations) that they started giving me some antibiotics. They gave them sporadically, and my temperature stayed at 40 degrees for over a week. I don’t know how my brain even managed to hold out. Until then, they’d occasionally change my bandages and apply iodine—that was all. They expected me to die.
But my case is truly unique, because it turned out that even that was enough for me to survive. Guys with less serious injuries didn’t survive, but for me, even though we were all sitting there hungry and without medical care, everything started to heal.”
Miraculously, Vikipedia did not go completely blind, because no one treated his injured eye while he was in captivity. But in addition to the lack of medical care, the Ukrainian soldiers were physically tortured. In particular, they stuck needles into their wounds and subjected them to water torture. They were subjected to psychological pressure, with their captors telling them that everyone had abandoned them, that the war was already lost, and that no one needed them.
Recalling his experience, Vladislav regretfully acknowledges that well-known international institutions, which claim to be involved in the release and care of prisoners of war, are in fact not doing so properly:
“I didn’t see any Red Cross representatives either during my captivity or during the exchange. And my comrades who were also held captive reported the same thing—they weren’t there in Olenivka or in Donetsk.
Later on, the International Committee of the Red Cross occasionally allowed itself to attend the exchange procedure. And it handed out tea to the guys in branded cups with its logo. But they did not negotiate the exchange itself at that time, nor were they involved in it.
And this is what I’m now trying to convey to all foreigners during meetings abroad. You’re not empathetic; you don’t care about Ukraine? That’s your right. But you must realize that you live in a world where the largest humanitarian organizations with massive budgets have absolutely no influence.
Red Cross representatives argue: “We,” they say, “are not a military organization; we don’t have weapons to force the Russians to grant us access to the prisoners.” But you are the world’s largest humanitarian organization in history! That is precisely where your strength should lie! You must speak out every single day about the need for such access to the wounded and the prisoners of war. Why aren’t you doing this?!
The Russians are killing our boys in captivity, and then [American actor] Steven Seagal calmly shows up at the very place where they executed our prisoners—in Olenivka. And they let him in, while for some reason the Russians ignore the Red Cross. And no one is pushing for this access to conduct an objective investigation into the crimes!”
Freeing his comrades from captivity is one of Vladislav’s current goals. Because people dear to his heart remain there. That’s why he’s an active participant in rallies supporting the “Azov” prisoners of war, as well as international summits and conferences.
“There was a guy with us in Mariupol who returned to battle four times after being wounded. After the last time, the commander strictly ordered him to stay in the hospital. The soldier couldn’t walk properly, but this guy was crying because, as he said, ‘I wanted to die with my comrades in battle.’
This man is still in captivity today. I sometimes see him in photos or videos—he’s in terrible condition. And it was this very man who shared a piece of bread with me while we were in captivity: a kind-hearted nurse at a hospital in Donetsk had bought him a loaf of bread (since we were constantly hungry), and he gave half of it to our ward. And that was the greatest act of kindness shown to me in my entire life. That’s why I speak about them—those who remain in captivity to this day—at every opportunity. It’s my duty.”
“I Want to Be a ‘Cheerful Old Man’”
Vikipedia spent nearly two months in a Donetsk hospital. And he was among the first to be exchanged. As Vlad says now, he gave Ukrainian doctors a lot of work. After his captivity and a long road to rehabilitation—which continues to this day—he got a prosthetic leg. In Ukraine, doctors reconstructed his injured eye without a prosthesis—now it differs only slightly in the color of the iris.
“Physically, I’m written off, but I continue to work for Victory,” says Zhayvoronok.
In remaining useful to the army and his comrades, Vlad also saw a personal path to recovery:
“After I was exchanged, I underwent reamputation. They began removing shrapnel from my body—my whole body ached and throbbed. Because of the pain, even my brain started to malfunction. But then some friends from another unit called and reminded me that I used to work on radio interception using specialized equipment. They asked for help. I said, ‘No problem!’ I’m in a wheelchair; it’s hard for me to sit, but for 40 minutes I explained some technical details to the guys over video chat. And when I closed my laptop (they logged off and went to work), I went to sleep. And for the first time ever, I slept soundly! Because I felt useful!
I’m still working with drones today. I realize I can’t physically be a pilot right on the front lines—it’s hard enough for me to just walk down the streets, let alone on rough terrain. But I can help with training. And now, thanks to my disability, I’m able to travel outside the country without any issues, visiting partner countries that are helping us with drones.
So it turns out that right now I’m using absolutely all the knowledge and skills I’ve acquired since I was 12. Everything has come in handy: even the type of glue I used as a kid when building my drones—I can discuss this with international manufacturers. Every little detail has come in handy! So my disability hardly hinders me at all—and in some ways, it even helps.
And there are good reasons why I sleep soundly: because right now I’m causing the enemy far more trouble than I ever did when I was an active-duty soldier. “This is my personal rehabilitation.”
Vladislav jokes that, for him, all old men fall into two categories: they’re either “spry” (specifically “spry,” not “cheerful”) or “withered”: “Well, nobody’s interested in a listless ‘old man’—he’s boring, and no one wants to talk to him. That’s why I’ve spent my whole life striving to be a ‘sprightly grandpa.’”
Vladislav is convinced that the young men currently serving—who joined the war later than he did—now have significantly more experience and skills. He speaks of his charges with undisguised enthusiasm:
“There’s almost nothing new left that I can teach them. And now, when I look at them, I’m a little envious of their capabilities. Military equipment is coming in from all over the world. We didn’t have anything even close to that. Now, the guys who are joining the army and serving are far better trained and more effective than we were at the start of the full-scale war.
And all I can give them is my spirit and enthusiasm. I can tell them about my own journey.
We, the defenders of Mariupol and other guys, at the cost of our lives and thanks to what we knew and were able to do, bought time for the next generation of fighters to prepare.
And it gives me great pleasure to realize that the soldiers who have come to replace us are inspired by our example. I’m glad they think of me as a lively old man!
There’s one more thing. What keeps me going now, after all the wounds, after all the physical abilities I’ve lost, is the realization that I was among the best. What I’ve lived through, what I’ve endured, is more than enough for a single lifetime. It actually gives me peace of mind, gives me the strength to keep going, and keeps me from giving up or throwing in the towel—in memory of the guys I served with who died.
Their printed photos hang in my home—I’ve named that room “Poplavsky’s Room” (from the word “poplava,” meaning “to melt”). I go in there, sit down, “melt away,” feel nostalgic, but I don’t lose my strength—on the contrary, I draw strength from it. This is what reminds me: you can always do something better; you can always find the strength within yourself. And as long as you’re alive, you must keep working.
The fallen soldiers have already earned their rest—only they have the right to do nothing more, for they laid down their lives in battle. All the rest of us, the living, are obligated to work for Victory!”
Author: Marina Tkachuk
“This is the only thing I have left from my time serving and defending Mariupol,” says Vladislav as he pulls his military dog tag from under his T-shirt. He still wears it around his neck and cherishes it dearly: this important “souvenir” has been with him not only through the defense of Azovstal but also through his captivity in Russia. It survived by a miracle—the Russians never found it.
“I just smelled so strongly of rotten meat that no one even bothered to search me thoroughly,” the young man explains.
Vladislav Zhayvoronok “Wikipedia,” a 29-year-old fighter with the Azov Regiment and commander of an aerial reconnaissance squad, was perhaps the last patient to be rescued at Azovstal. And what a rescue it was! Vlad suffered severe injuries in battle (shrapnel from an anti-tank missile shattered his leg and struck his eye); he was practically bleeding to death.
“Wikipedia,” who was showing almost no signs of life, was about to be placed in a black bag. But at the last moment, they decided to fight for his survival, even though there were no medicines or surgical instruments left in the bunker. In completely unsanitary conditions, they amputated Zhayvoronok’s injured leg with a rusty Soviet saw, and blood for the transfusion was collected from other wounded soldiers—donors—using a syringe into a plastic bottle.
But he survived! He endured Russian captivity and interrogations. He returned home and got a prosthetic leg. And now he continues to help the front lines.
“I’m truly proud that I lost my leg and the sight in one eye right there in battle, with a weapon in my hands defending Mariupol, and not while drunk in some car accident,” says Vladislav. “And all of us there at Azovstal were ready to die.”
“Perhaps some people think that the country’s independence isn’t worth one’s personal life or health. But that’s not true. You have to fight for your country at any cost!”
“I wanted to be in the ‘front row’ when it all started”
Vlad has been fascinated by “airplanes” since childhood
Vlad still recalls his most vivid childhood memory in minute detail: he is in a field, 12 years old, launching homemade model airplanes into the sky with his friend. Vlad lives with his family in his hometown of Beryslav in the Kherson region and is passionately interested in model aircraft.
A good ten years will pass, and his childhood hobby will become a military specialty that will help Vlad—now as a UAV pilot—destroy enemies on the front lines. “Back then, I was more interested not even in the flight itself,” recalls Wikipedia, “but in the design process: initial calculations, working with tools—all sorts of technical details. That’s how I learned to solder, for example.”
While still a teenager, Vladislav moved to Odesa with his family; there, he enrolled in a technical university and opened his own workshop, where he worked on electronics. In the evenings, he recalls, he would immerse himself in military literature, take an interest in information about cruise and ballistic missiles, and become increasingly convinced that drones were his calling.
And then came 2014 and the infamous events in Odesa on May 2.
“I happened to find myself in the epicenter of the unrest back then,” Vladislav says. “I was on my way home from work on a minibus. But I never made it home because the bus was forced to stop—the street had been blocked off. I continued on foot. I didn’t see the first victims (I found out about them later from the news). But I clearly remember the moment when shooting began from pro-Russian people I didn’t know.
Before these events—before the Revolution of Dignity—I had various acquaintances in Odesa. But it was then that I started cleaning up my social media accounts and analyzing the information around me more closely. For example, among my acquaintances was a Russian man who was hiding in Ukraine to avoid serving in the Russian army. And it was right after May 2, 2014, that he started posting on social media on behalf of “Odessa residents,” saying things like, “Let’s beat up these Bandera supporters.” It became obvious to me then that he was our enemy, living right here in Odesa. And there was no doubt in my mind which side to choose.”
It’s not that Vladislav had always been hostile toward Russians—quite the opposite.
“I grew up in the Kherson region, where Russia was viewed favorably. I even allowed myself to think that we really were kindred peoples: I rooted for their soccer clubs and for the Russian national team at the Olympic Games. “My father used to go to Russia to work,” Zhayvoronok shares. “But when he came home, he’d tell me a lot about how Russians really treated Ukrainians—with contempt and condescension. Even back then, we were “khakhls” to them—second-class citizens.
Even those Russians who lived in unfinished barracks—alcoholics and homeless people—for some reason considered themselves socially superior to any Ukrainian.
And in 2014, it really hit me: they are our enemies. And it wasn’t enough to simply accept this fact—the conflict between us demanded action! We must put up active resistance if we want to survive. If we don’t fight these enemies, we’ll lose and never see our country’s independence again—that’s what I thought.”
Vlad admits: after the annexation of Crimea and the fighting in Donbas, he was already expecting a major war.
“I understood that Russia had sufficient military capabilities to escalate things to an entirely different level. And when I read news reports that they had shelled something with ‘Grad’ rockets or 120-mm mortars, I thought of the enormous stockpile of cruise missiles and other weapons they had accumulated back in the days of the Soviet Union —I was “in the know”! And the Russians hadn’t started using any of that yet. But they would! It was clear that it was only a matter of time,” the young man reasoned.
Vladislav thought pragmatically and relied on his own analysis:
“In modern wars, the majority of casualties are civilians, not military personnel. So I didn’t plan to face a full-scale war as a civilian who doesn’t know how to do anything. I didn’t want to become ‘collateral damage’; I wanted to sell my life for a higher price. I preferred to be in the ‘front line’ when it all begins.”
Now Vlad laughs: “Beware of your desires!” Because even he didn’t expect to get such a “front row” spot so soon—just five years later: the reconnaissance platoon of the “Azov” Regiment, Mariupol, and the defense of “Azovstal.”
“Everyone in our reconnaissance platoon was a superhero”
The path to the “front row” in the theater of war, however, was neither short nor easy. Vladislav couldn’t imagine serving anywhere else but in the Azov Regiment. But he made the final decision to join the ranks of the “Azovites” after watching one video:
“In 2015, Mariupol was shelled with ‘Grad’ rockets for the first time. I saw how terrified the wounded civilians looked in that video. Meanwhile, the guys from ‘Azov’ were helping them—they were tired and exhausted, but they knew what to do—there was no panic. And I wanted to be closer to them—so I decided to join ‘Azov.’
Since Vlad had certain health limitations and had never served in the army before, it wasn’t easy to join the ranks of the Azov Battalion. But his dream finally came true in 2018. And, without a doubt, he wanted to work specifically with drones.
“I dreamed of making a difference by working with drones—developing them, building them, and flying them,” says Vladislav.
The Azov fighters recognized his abilities and drive—so “Viki” quickly joined the aerial reconnaissance unit. He had his first combat deployment as part of “Azov” at the Svitlodarsk Arc (where pilots were desperately needed, but at that time, few people knew how to fly them).
“Later, our aerial reconnaissance unit was merged with regular reconnaissance. It was physically demanding, since we were constantly out on combat missions. But it was also an honor! I felt like a real ‘cheater’ because, after a year of service, I’d ‘made it’ to the elite of ‘Azov.’ These guys were truly the best. They’re my family, the best friends in my life. Everyone in my platoon was a superhero—extraordinary!
And these aren’t just empty words. To make it into the reconnaissance platoon, you had to be better than your entire unit at something specific. In other words, our machine-gunners were the best at what they did. Our “mazuti,” our heavy equipment drivers. The best snipers and grenade launchers. That’s why now, when I look back on that experience, I sometimes can’t even believe I fought alongside these guys. Each of them had his own special skill. And the fact that they needed me was an extraordinary honor,” says Vladislav.
“I had accepted the fact that I was going to die, but I wanted to take as many enemies with me as possible.”
A few weeks before the “full-scale” conflict, they were warned about a possible Russian invasion. And that it would be much more serious than in 2014. The guys in Mariupol were on full combat alert:
“All the machine guns were cleaned, ammunition was ready, all the drones, all the batteries, and tablets were charged, and the armored personnel carriers were prepared and checked dozens of times. We didn’t have a lot of equipment, but we tried to keep it in the best possible condition,” recalls Wikipedia. When it all began, they followed protocol.
On the fifth day of the great war, the reconnaissance team, which included Vlad, set out on a reconnaissance mission: first to the village of Hnutovo, then to Talakivka and Sartana. The men essentially drove straight toward the enemy, which was already advancing on Mariupol, and were ambushed.
“We were planning to fly, but by that point the enemy had already breached the defenses at Shyrokyne—the line of defense held by the Marines stationed there. We didn’t know that at the time. We just ran into them.
From a military standpoint, it’s correct to call this a ‘sudden encounter with the enemy.’ There were about 30–40 Russians, and there were five of us. They were moving along the road and opened fire on our vehicle. That was the first time we lost a soldier from our platoon—Dmytro Linsky, nicknamed “Sectant.” He died right there in the vehicle. Everyone else, including me, was seriously wounded. I still managed to provide first aid to one of my comrades, the medic Vlad “Desmond.” We abandoned the vehicle and began to defend ourselves.
When I was firing my assault rifle at the enemy, when I could literally see the faces of the occupiers—that moment was a turning point for me: not in the sense of “Oh, I’ve killed a person for the first time!”
I realized that the enemy was afraid—none of them wanted to die!
Instead of finishing us off, the Russians simply lay down in the grass and shouted over the radio that they needed reinforcements. The guys and I exchanged glances—we didn’t get it: why did they need reinforcements when there were already so many of them? Not a single one from that large group of enemies wanted to be the first to approach us.
We, on the other hand, had free rein: I had accepted the fact that I was about to die, but I wanted to take as many enemies with me as possible. And that’s exactly what helped us survive! Later, we analyzed that incident second by second. Everyone was wounded, and there were far fewer of us. But we returned fire and began killing enemy soldiers. If we hadn’t done that, they would most likely have simply finished us off—us, the wounded—gathered up our gear—and that would have been it. We showed the enemy that we wouldn’t give up. Psychologically, we defeated them—we bought time and were able to retreat.”
“Guys, relax—it’s me. I’ll stick around as long as it takes.”
Bleeding out, the guys made their way back to Mariupol in multiple stops over seven hours. And they survived. At that time, the 555th Military Hospital was still operating; there, the fighters were more or less “patched up” and got back on their feet. Vlad had a serious through-and-through wound to his shoulder and had lost a lot of blood. But just a few weeks later, he was flying again. And he became one of the few pilots at “Azovstal” who flew right up until the very last night of the defense:
“I understood that, most likely, we’d all die there, surrounded as we were. But I wanted to die with a weapon in my hands, while performing my duty. To be honest, there were guys who were afraid to even step outside, and I’d look at their pale, frightened faces and realize: there were no ‘passengers’ left in their heads—they were already dead inside. And I was afraid of that—of becoming like that. I was afraid that if I died, my family would be told that I’d been hiding. So whenever I had to work or go out on missions—I’d go out onto the street and do everything I could.”
After his first injury, Vlad lost a lot of blood and couldn’t stand for long without losing consciousness—let alone carry out combat missions in full gear. But a couple of weeks later, he was already operating the remote control because it was necessary.
“One moment is etched in my memory,” Vlad recalls. “There was one extremely difficult position—Shlakova Hora. And the guys there had pretty poor cover. The enemy was firing at them almost 24/7. And the enemy had a completely logical tactic—an age-old one: they’d start shelling our positions, and the guys would take cover to minimize the chance of getting wounded. At that moment, enemy forces would advance. Because they’d be warned when the so-called “last shell” was fired. The enemy already knew that the shelling would stop, and they could simply throw grenades at the guys in their cover. Our fighters were wary of this scenario.
An enemy mortar is shelling our positions, and they’re worried that an assault might be coming any moment. No one can help them; no one can get close because the area is under heavy fire. At that moment, I felt as if my whole life had been leading up to this moment: I had the radio I’d built myself, staying up all night beforehand, and fully charged batteries. I can pop out of cover—the radio is still working—so I’m in touch with the guys, and I can warn them whether enemies are approaching or not.
And in that moment, the realization that I was the only one who could help them—that sense of responsibility—stuck with me for life. So I flew over and told them over the radio: “Guys, relax, it’s me—Lavina (that was my radio call sign at the time). The drone above you—that’s me. I’ve got the situation under control; no one’s coming near you. There are no enemy forces around. But if I see anything, I’ll let you know. You’ll have time to return fire—don’t worry. I have enough battery life, and I’ll stay overhead as long as needed.”
And that reassured the guys. (I don’t remember their call signs anymore, but I actually exchanged messages with one of them recently.) That day, the Russians never launched an assault. It’s possible that’s because it wouldn’t have come as a surprise to us.
But this situation was important proof for me: my profession as a pilot is important. And it was precisely this that allowed me to remain active throughout the entire defense of Mariupol.”
“As I was dying, I recited the nationalist prayer—it’s a sacred text to me.”
Meanwhile, it was becoming clear that the forces were unequal. And the siege of Mariupol was not going in the Ukrainian forces’ favor: the Russians were razing entire neighborhoods to the ground, along with their residents. Vladislav increasingly had to perform the duties of a combat medic or communications officer, not just a pilot.
“It was, in fact, the last evening of the defense—May 15. We had one seriously wounded fighter, a grenadier who had been hit while carrying out a combat mission,” recalls Wikipedia. “We saw his injuries and realized: they were unlikely to be compatible with life. We had no way to evacuate him under fire.
Four tank crewmen tried to come to our aid—they had lost their tanks and were now operating as infantry. But by the time the soldiers reached our position, three of them had been wounded. We knew we had to wait out the shelling. A few hours later, some guys—ordinary conscripts from the National Guard—came to our aid with a rigid stretcher (since we didn’t have one of our own) and helped us carry our comrade.
Unfortunately, Ryzhyy died while we were carrying him to the bunker—right there on the way. And when we were returning to our position, an anti-tank missile struck us. The rocket’s tail section severed Ruslan “David’s” foot, and it shattered my left leg. At the same time, a piece of shrapnel hit my right eye and seriously lacerated my other limbs.
I didn’t feel any pain: there was a flash nearby—and I lost my balance, fell, tried to crawl, and realized I couldn’t feel my left leg. There were railroad cars standing nearby; I crawled under one of them. I could barely see, so I realized: I’d lost one eye. I couldn’t get the tourniquet on properly: my leg was torn open and the wound was very high up. My arms were also broken—too weak—so I couldn’t tighten the “turnbuckle” properly.
Meanwhile, I hear the guys calling out to each other. Ruslan was begging to be finished off. I thought: Damn it, what kind of injury do you have if you’re asking for that? (It turned out later that I was the one who took the brunt of the blow. Fortunately, we both survived.
)
Mezha, an “Azov” soldier, ran up to me. He was actually the first person to save me. He’s tightening the turnbuckle on the tourniquet. He asked if it hurt, but I didn’t feel a thing. While my comrade was helping me, I got on the radio to report to the commander that our group had come under fire. Although it’s strictly forbidden for the wounded—especially those with severe injuries—to do this, because people are different, and not everyone remains calm in a stressful situation.
I report to the commander: “We have two ‘300s,’ severe cases.” In response: “Who’s wounded?” I say: “David had his foot blown off, and Wikipedia—he’s lost his left leg and an eye.” A pause on the radio. Stok asks again and adds: “So who am I talking to, then?” I reply: “Wikipedia.” Later, we recalled that conversation and laughed. At the time, it was important for me to keep my voice calm and report on the situation.”
But Vlad’s condition was rapidly deteriorating and becoming critical.
“I remember it almost second by second: how I lay there waiting for the guys with the stretcher. I understood very well what awaited me and that these injuries were very severe. At that moment, I accepted my death as a fait accompli. And I recited the nationalist prayer to myself. I don’t know—maybe this sounds strange to some—but that moment was solemn and important to me. And the text of the prayer is truly sacred; I always react emotionally to it. There was also a practical reason for this: I was reciting the prayer—so I was mumbling something, making some sounds—and that helped the guys find me faster in the dark, since all this was happening at half past midnight.”
“The surgeon sawed my leg with an old, rusty saw, and they transfused blood from a plastic bottle—but it worked!”
His comrades evacuated Vlad to the “Zalizyak” medical bunker at Azovstal—by then he was already in extremely critical condition: no pulse could be detected in his limbs. And even at his neck, it was barely perceptible.
“The surgeon, following protocol, was already about to put my body in a bag—not even the usual body bags, since we ran out of those a long time ago. We simply wrapped the dead bodies in pieces of black plastic.
And now they were unrolling that plastic for me, too, but the female medics started protesting loudly (they remembered me from when I was first wounded). And we’d seen each other just an hour earlier—I’d brought in another wounded soldier and returned to my position. And now here I am, brought in, already almost dead!).
The women—anesthesiologist Nina and psychologist Nastya—stubbornly refuse to put my body in a bag and are still trying to save me. They start looking for some kind of markings on me indicating my blood type but can’t find them (because I took off all my gear—the first-aid kit, the plate carrier, the body armor—where that information was—after I was wounded). They run around the medical bunker, asking if anyone knows my blood type. Nina shakes me, but I keep “drifting off”; I come to and seem (as far as I can tell) to answer her, but it’s impossible to make out what I’m saying.
I was lying there with my eyes closed, and I wasn’t in pain anymore—on the contrary, I actually felt good. I was peacefully drifting in and out of consciousness, dying, when suddenly they were poking me, shaking me, and asking me questions.
I’m a combat medic myself; I’ve gone through this training, and I understand that according to all protocols, I should have been declared dead. I was dying without any resentment or fear: everything was okay. Maybe it was because I was so tired and exhausted: for two months leading up to that day, we’d been sleeping only 2–3 hours a day. Maybe that’s why death felt like a relief—I just wanted to finally rest.
That must have been fate, because I said my blood type was “A+.” But Nina heard “2+.” And I was lucky, because they’re one and the same. So they decided among themselves to try giving me the second blood type after all. A group of guys lined up—they were wounded themselves, but agreed to share their blood with me: they drew it from them with syringes and poured it into some kind of plastic bottle—either a mineral water bottle or a Coke bottle. They mixed it all together—there were no anticoagulants, none of the medications necessary for a blood transfusion!—and transfused it into me.
What’s more, this story had a sequel. One of the guys from whom they took some blood for me returned to the front after being captured and exchanged. And he died. And his blood flows through me. I think his call sign was Yura… And I owe him my life.
Then came the amputation: the surgeon sawed through the bone in my leg with some old, rusty Soviet saw with a red plastic handle—they even sent me a photo of that saw later. They even joked: “They wiped it down with alcohol before the operation!” They stitched up the wound with blue fishing line (“leska”) that they found somewhere. Under those conditions at Azovstal, the doctors did truly amazing things. And it worked!”
“I didn’t see any Red Cross representatives while I was a prisoner of war.”
“I came to my senses already in Donetsk, while in captivity,” Vladislav recounts the events that followed. “I’d woken up a few times before that, but it was like a ‘slideshow.’ I remember being driven along a terrible road, being loaded onto and unloaded from vehicles. The most seriously wounded were sent to Donetsk. Those who didn’t need medical care were taken to Olenivka.
By all the rules and protocols, I shouldn’t have survived. No one even thought I’d survive: in Donetsk, after I regained consciousness, it wasn’t until the sixth day (and even then, only after interrogations) that they started giving me some antibiotics. They gave them sporadically, and my temperature stayed at 40 degrees for over a week. I don’t know how my brain even managed to hold out. Until then, they’d occasionally change my bandages and apply iodine—that was all. They expected me to die.
But my case is truly unique, because it turned out that even that was enough for me to survive. Guys with less serious injuries didn’t survive, but for me, even though we were all sitting there hungry and without medical care, everything started to heal.”
Miraculously, Vikipedia did not go completely blind, because no one treated his injured eye while he was in captivity. But in addition to the lack of medical care, the Ukrainian soldiers were physically tortured. In particular, they stuck needles into their wounds and subjected them to water torture. They were subjected to psychological pressure, with their captors telling them that everyone had abandoned them, that the war was already lost, and that no one needed them.
Recalling his experience, Vladislav regretfully acknowledges that well-known international institutions, which claim to be involved in the release and care of prisoners of war, are in fact not doing so properly:
“I didn’t see any Red Cross representatives either during my captivity or during the exchange. And my comrades who were also held captive reported the same thing—they weren’t there in Olenivka or in Donetsk.
Later on, the International Committee of the Red Cross occasionally allowed itself to attend the exchange procedure. And it handed out tea to the guys in branded cups with its logo. But they did not negotiate the exchange itself at that time, nor were they involved in it.
And this is what I’m now trying to convey to all foreigners during meetings abroad. You’re not empathetic; you don’t care about Ukraine? That’s your right. But you must realize that you live in a world where the largest humanitarian organizations with massive budgets have absolutely no influence.
Red Cross representatives argue: “We,” they say, “are not a military organization; we don’t have weapons to force the Russians to grant us access to the prisoners.” But you are the world’s largest humanitarian organization in history! That is precisely where your strength should lie! You must speak out every single day about the need for such access to the wounded and the prisoners of war. Why aren’t you doing this?!
The Russians are killing our boys in captivity, and then [American actor] Steven Seagal calmly shows up at the very place where they executed our prisoners—in Olenivka. And they let him in, while for some reason the Russians ignore the Red Cross. And no one is pushing for this access to conduct an objective investigation into the crimes!”
Freeing his comrades from captivity is one of Vladislav’s current goals. Because people dear to his heart remain there. That’s why he’s an active participant in rallies supporting the “Azov” prisoners of war, as well as international summits and conferences.
“There was a guy with us in Mariupol who returned to battle four times after being wounded. After the last time, the commander strictly ordered him to stay in the hospital. The soldier couldn’t walk properly, but this guy was crying because, as he said, ‘I wanted to die with my comrades in battle.’
This man is still in captivity today. I sometimes see him in photos or videos—he’s in terrible condition. And it was this very man who shared a piece of bread with me while we were in captivity: a kind-hearted nurse at a hospital in Donetsk had bought him a loaf of bread (since we were constantly hungry), and he gave half of it to our ward. And that was the greatest act of kindness shown to me in my entire life. That’s why I speak about them—those who remain in captivity to this day—at every opportunity. It’s my duty.”
“I Want to Be a ‘Cheerful Old Man’”
Vikipedia spent nearly two months in a Donetsk hospital. And he was among the first to be exchanged. As Vlad says now, he gave Ukrainian doctors a lot of work. After his captivity and a long road to rehabilitation—which continues to this day—he got a prosthetic leg. In Ukraine, doctors reconstructed his injured eye without a prosthesis—now it differs only slightly in the color of the iris.
“Physically, I’m written off, but I continue to work for Victory,” says Zhayvoronok.
In remaining useful to the army and his comrades, Vlad also saw a personal path to recovery:
“After I was exchanged, I underwent reamputation. They began removing shrapnel from my body—my whole body ached and throbbed. Because of the pain, even my brain started to malfunction. But then some friends from another unit called and reminded me that I used to work on radio interception using specialized equipment. They asked for help. I said, ‘No problem!’ I’m in a wheelchair; it’s hard for me to sit, but for 40 minutes I explained some technical details to the guys over video chat. And when I closed my laptop (they logged off and went to work), I went to sleep. And for the first time ever, I slept soundly! Because I felt useful!
I’m still working with drones today. I realize I can’t physically be a pilot right on the front lines—it’s hard enough for me to just walk down the streets, let alone on rough terrain. But I can help with training. And now, thanks to my disability, I’m able to travel outside the country without any issues, visiting partner countries that are helping us with drones.
So it turns out that right now I’m using absolutely all the knowledge and skills I’ve acquired since I was 12. Everything has come in handy: even the type of glue I used as a kid when building my drones—I can discuss this with international manufacturers. Every little detail has come in handy! So my disability hardly hinders me at all—and in some ways, it even helps.
And there are good reasons why I sleep soundly: because right now I’m causing the enemy far more trouble than I ever did when I was an active-duty soldier. “This is my personal rehabilitation.”
Vladislav jokes that, for him, all old men fall into two categories: they’re either “spry” (specifically “spry,” not “cheerful”) or “withered”: “Well, nobody’s interested in a listless ‘old man’—he’s boring, and no one wants to talk to him. That’s why I’ve spent my whole life striving to be a ‘sprightly grandpa.’”
Vladislav is convinced that the young men currently serving—who joined the war later than he did—now have significantly more experience and skills. He speaks of his charges with undisguised enthusiasm:
“There’s almost nothing new left that I can teach them. And now, when I look at them, I’m a little envious of their capabilities. Military equipment is coming in from all over the world. We didn’t have anything even close to that. Now, the guys who are joining the army and serving are far better trained and more effective than we were at the start of the full-scale war.
And all I can give them is my spirit and enthusiasm. I can tell them about my own journey.
We, the defenders of Mariupol and other guys, at the cost of our lives and thanks to what we knew and were able to do, bought time for the next generation of fighters to prepare.
And it gives me great pleasure to realize that the soldiers who have come to replace us are inspired by our example. I’m glad they think of me as a lively old man!
There’s one more thing. What keeps me going now, after all the wounds, after all the physical abilities I’ve lost, is the realization that I was among the best. What I’ve lived through, what I’ve endured, is more than enough for a single lifetime. It actually gives me peace of mind, gives me the strength to keep going, and keeps me from giving up or throwing in the towel—in memory of the guys I served with who died.
Their printed photos hang in my home—I’ve named that room “Poplavsky’s Room” (from the word “poplava,” meaning “to melt”). I go in there, sit down, “melt away,” feel nostalgic, but I don’t lose my strength—on the contrary, I draw strength from it. This is what reminds me: you can always do something better; you can always find the strength within yourself. And as long as you’re alive, you must keep working.
The fallen soldiers have already earned their rest—only they have the right to do nothing more, for they laid down their lives in battle. All the rest of us, the living, are obligated to work for Victory!”
This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.